Estimated reading time: 13 minutes

What Coaches and Loved Ones Miss Most

Emotional eating awareness: reminder

If you’re joining us now, we’ve peeled back some heavy layers—and we’re just getting started.

In Part 1, we named emotional eating clearly: not a flaw or failure, but a survival strategy. In Part 2, we shattered the myth that emotional eating is about food because it’s never really been about food. It’s about emotional regulation.

If you haven’t read those yet, start there. Trust me, it’s your map. This part is different. It’s not for the person trapped in the spiral; it’s for the ones watching it happen.

This one’s for the coach baffled by an athlete’s relapse, the partner stumbling on hidden snack wrappers after tough conversations, the trainer who senses the truth behind the “I’m fine.”

Here’s where you stop guessing and start truly seeing; recognizing the subtle behaviors, understanding the silent signals, and finally grasping the unseen emotions driving the cycle.

Because often, the ones who care the most; coaches, partners, family—stand closest to the signals but miss them entirely. You can’t help effectively if you don’t know what you’re seeing.

The wiring of comfort

This might sound familiar because it should. We covered this deeply in Part 2, but it’s worth repeating:

Emotional eating often begins before we even have the language to explain it. As kids, many of us learned that food could quiet something; sadness, anger, loneliness. A cookie became comfort. A treat became distraction. A second helping became a stand-in for presence or love. There’s a million examples.

What can start in childhood as comfort – eat, soothe, repeat -over years and years, becomes conditioning. It’s not indulgence. Its a a survival response learned so fu***** well, it feels instinctual.

That learned survival doesn’t just fade. It gets practiced, rehearsed, and etched into our nervous system. And by the time we’re adults, we’re still reaching, not because we’re weak but because we’re wired to. This can happen later in life just as easy.

What we’re missing: the invisible wiring of emotional eating

And that wiring? You don’t see it because it’s invisible. That’s the problem. And this is why we keep getting it wrong. Obesity is one of the most misunderstood conditions we talk about. We assume we know what we’re seeing. We assume it’s just about food. It’s not. Seventy percent of people living with obesity experience emotional eating, highlighting the deep connection between emotional eating and obesity. That’s not a coincidence. That’s the foundation for so many people!

But instead of addressing the root, we attack the symptom. We offer willpower lectures, macros, a new app, and a different plan. We keep trying to spreadsheet our way out of something that is so often not about food in the first place.

You don’t fix emotional dysregulation with a macro split; you address it with awareness, compassion, and emotional insight. The problem isn’t just what someone eats it’s what they carry. And they’re carrying it seventy percent of the damn time!

And let’s be clear: emotional eating doesn’t live only in larger bodies. It hides in the lean and the loud, in the ones who “have it all together,” in the coach, the parent, the one who logs everything, the one who disappears, the one who says they’re fine until they’re not.

This isn’t rare. This is everywhere. And it’s time we stop missing it.

Signs of emotional eating (in real life)

Before we go any further, here’s what most people never see:

The eating isn’t the whole story. The real pain comes after the shame, the silence, the loop. And if you’re a coach, this part’s especially for you.

You might think your client is lying. That they’re avoiding accountability. That they’re just not committed. But most of the time, they’re not lying. They didn’t log it because they didn’t realize it happened until it was over. In the moment, it didn’t feel like sabotage. It felt like a relief, like numbing, like a pause.

Or maybe they skipped logging because the shame hit before the spoon even reached the bottom of the bowl. And now, writing it down feels like punishment, like signing their own failure into the record.

It’s not deception. It’s disconnection.

People aren’t hiding the truth to deceive you. They’re hiding because they don’t feel safe enough to be honest.

Emotional eating rarely feels emotional because it’s instinct. It’s the handful of nuts after a hard phone call, the candy during a tense meeting, the fridge visit that starts with “I think I’m just thirsty” and ends with three wrappers and no memory of chewing.

When they say, “I don’t know why I did that,” most of them mean it. Because the trigger wasn’t just invisible to you it was invisible to them, too.

If you respond with shame or frustration, you confirm their worst fear; that being seen means being judged. But if you respond with curiosity, if you ask, “What was going on right before that?” or “What were you feeling before you reached for that?”—you offer something they rarely experience: a safe place to name what they never had words for.

You turn the food log into something more than a checklist. You stop chasing compliance and start building trust.

Before progress, before honesty, before change – comes psychological safety. Before someone hands you the truth, they have to believe you won’t weaponize it.

Now, let’s talk about who they are.

Who does this? (and how it shows up around you)

For clarity: we’re not here to diagnose. We’re not here to fix anyone, save anyone, or strategize our way into someone else’s healing.

That’s not our role. And it never was.

What we’re here to do is notice, pay attention, see the signal for what it is, and stop writing it off as laziness or lack of discipline.

Because once you start actually seeing it, you stop misreading it. You stop reacting to surface behavior and start responding to what’s underneath. And that’s what this part is about.

Now, I want to show you who it lives in and how it moves through the world so silently that no one ever asks what it’s really costing them.

We’re not here to call people out. We’re here to call people in; into awareness, compassion, and connection.

One quick thing before you scroll this list—because here’s where it gets interesting. Someone can be one of these types… or, plot twist, all of them at once. Yep. Full buffet.

The perfectionist

They follow the plan exactly until they break. When they break, it is all or nothing: “I blew it, so I might as well eat everything.” They crave control, precision, and predictability. But emotion does not play by those rules. When grief, stress, or loneliness sneak in, the perfectionist panics. They feel like they have failed, and food becomes both the punishment and the comfort.

In the gym: Obsessive tracking. Asking for “the exact numbers.” Repeating workouts they feel are not perfect enough. Disappearing after a minor setback. Overanalyzing progress photos. Repeating check-in phrases like, “I was good until Wednesday… then I blew it.”

At home: Rehearsing what they will order before going to dinner. Canceling plans if a meal cannot be tracked. Crying after a bite of dessert. Meal prepping with military precision, then inhales the peanut butter at midnight. Their fridge looks perfect.

What they say:

• “I already messed up today, so I might as well start over tomorrow.”
• “I just need to get my sh*t together.”
• “I’m starting over on Monday.”
• “I am either 100 percent on or completely off.”
• “I know better than this.”
• “I was doing great until one bad night ruined everything.”
• “I don’t want to talk about it unless I’m back on track.”

What you might miss: They are the person who looks like a dream client. Until the silence comes. Sometimes, it is panic in disguise.

If you’re a coach or a loved one: Stay curious, not controlling. Celebrate flexibility. Gently reflect when they seem to disappear after a setback. Ask what the plan feels like not just how well they’re sticking to it. Give them permission to be human.

The caregiver

They give everything away; their time, energy, and care. Food becomes their quiet way of receiving something back, alone, when no one is watching. But even in their giving, they try not to be seen. They do not want to take up space. Their generosity masks depletion. Their smile hides hunger not just for food but for recognition, rest, and sometimes even love.

In the gym: Avoids eye contact, hangs back during group workouts, and often leaves quickly. They offer encouragement but never share their own needs. They decline help even when they need it most.

At home: Eats in the dark. Eats leftovers cold from the fridge. Skips family meals. Prepares food for everyone else but rarely for themselves. Eats while standing. Finishes what others leave behind. They do not want to be asked how they are doing because they do not believe the answer matters.

What they say:

• “Don’t worry about me.”
• “I’m not really hungry.”
• “I forgot to eat again.”
• “I just want to make sure everyone else is okay.”
• “It’s fine, I’ll eat later.”
• “You need it more than I do.”
• “I don’t want to be a burden.”
• “I don’t want to waste your time.”
• “I don’t want to talk about it.”

What you might miss: Their quiet consistency makes them easy to overlook, and their selflessness makes them easy to praise. But they are slowly fading out, meal by meal, moment by moment. Their emotional eating often happens in silence or total absence. Service becomes their mask. Starvation can become their apology.

If you’re a coach or a loved one: Ask them how they’re doing and mean it. Don’t wait for them to bring it up. Offer care before they ask. Make it normal. Make it easy. Notice when they’re always serving but never sitting. Give them space to receive without guilt.

The problem Solver

They are the fixer, the helper, the one who keeps everything running smoothly. When chaos hits, they roll up their sleeves and manage it. But their own emotions? They get stuffed down. Solving is their coping strategy, and when their tools no longer work, they reach for food to feel capable again, even if only for a moment.

In the gym: Changes topics quickly when asked about their own progress. Skips post-class connection in favor of cleaning up or “getting things done.” Keeps saying, “I’ll log it later,” but never does.

At home: Always the one cooking, cleaning, driving, and scheduling. Will only sit down to eat after everyone else has been served and sometimes not at all. Late-night snacking in the pantry while folding laundry or doing dishes. Says they are “too busy to eat,” even when the house is quiet.

What they say:

• “I’m just tired, it’s been a long week.”
• “I can’t fall apart; everyone’s counting on me.”
• “I just need to push through this one more thing.”

What you might miss: They laugh while venting, deflect concern with humor, and mask their exhaustion with productivity. When they eat emotionally, it looks like multitasking, not a meltdown. But the pain is still there, hidden in service, softened with snacks.

If you’re a coach or a loved one: Check in when there’s no crisis. Ask how they’re doing, not just what they’re doing. Remind them they don’t have to hold it all. Give them space to stop fixing and just feel. Sometimes, the most powerful support is letting them fall apart without fear.

This is me

This is me. Athena…. to the other fixers:

I’m a fixer because I had to be. Not because I wanted to control everything—but because, growing up, no one else was. When things got loud, unsafe, or unpredictable, I learned to manage. I read people before they spoke. I anticipated needs before they were named. Survival taught me to organize chaos, not just emotionally but practically—so I became the one who made the plans, found the exits, held it all together. Later, that turned into leadership. Into coaching. But underneath all that competence was a girl holding her breath. And when I couldn’t fix fast enough, or the weight of holding everything got too heavy—food was there. Emotional eating became the pause I didn’t know how to give myself. So now? I still offer. I’ll always give what I have. But I no longer chase. I earned my peace the hard way, and I won’t gamble it to prove my worth. That’s the difference. That’s the healing.

The high achiever

They are driven, focused, and praised for their commitment. But their identity is built on performance. Food becomes either the punishment or the secret reward when they fall short.

In the gym: Shows up early, stays late, always “on.” Misses meals due to back-to-back meetings or training blocks. Only check in when they are excelling.

At home: Eats while answering emails. Skips breakfast. Over eats when no one is watching after an unproductive day.

What they say:

• “I’ll eat when I earn it.”
• “I’m slammed today, I’ll grab something later.”
• “I can’t afford to slow down.”

What you might miss: Their busyness is often applauded. But their body is paying the price. Food becomes either fuel for the hustle or a late-night form of relief they will never admit.

If you’re a coach or a loved one: Help them detach food from performance. Ask about their capacity, not just their goals. Make space for rest without shame. Celebrate effort, not just outcomes. When they show up tired, offer them permission to pause, not push.

The restrictor

They are proud of how little they need. Hunger feels like power, control, and superiority. But underneath is chaos of emotion, memory, and stress. Restriction helps them feel in control when the rest of their lives feel anything but.

In the gym: Boasts about eating less. Considers hunger a badge of honor.

At home: Skips meals “by accident.” Drinks coffee to suppress hunger. Feels anxious around group meals.

What they say:

• “I just don’t get that hungry.”
• “I’m fine, I had something earlier.”
• “I feel better when I’m empty.”

What you might miss: Their restriction is not discipline; it is a defense. Emotional eating is not always overeating. Sometimes, it is silence, starvation, or withholding. The wire cuts off completely.

If you’re a coach or a loved one: Approach with care, not confrontation. Don’t make food the battleground. Help them reconnect with hunger without judgment. Offer consistency, not pressure. They don’t need a meal plan they need safety.

Conclusion: the sparks were always there

This isn’t about labeling people. It’s about learning to see them more clearly.

Because once you recognize emotional eating behaviors for what they are; not failures, not laziness, but signals—you start to hear the story behind the pattern. You stop judging the moment, and start understanding the history that built it.

The client who doesn’t log their food? They’re not lying. They might be drowning.

The athlete who suddenly falls off track? They might be grieving something they haven’t even named.

The friend or family member who keeps saying “I’m fine”? They might be reaching for food because they have no idea how to reach for help.

Emotional eating isn’t just overeating. Sometimes, it’s not eating at all. Sometimes, the wire doesn’t spark brighter; it just goes quiet. Disconnected. Gone. But the story doesn’t disappear. The pattern is still there. The pain is still there. It’s still trying to speak.

This is the part most people skip. The signs were never invisible. You just hadn’t learned how to read them.

Now you have.

What’s next: healing happens in layers

We haven’t yet reached the healing part, but it’s coming. I originally planned to cover it here, but this section needed more space. There was too much to say before we could move forward.

So, Part 4 will pick up where this one leaves off. We’ll talk about what healing can look like and how it shows up, surprises us, and evolves over time.

We’re taking this in pieces on purpose because healing doesn’t come in one breakthrough moment. It comes in layers: awareness, recognition, and rebuilding.